Keeping It Going
by fufulupin
Summary: Oneshot. Maureen muses over her relationship with Joanne. Yes, I'm tackling the OTHER side of the relationship now. Yey for crossing over. Rated for some swearing.


Disclaimer: Of course it isn't mine. You silly people. It's Rent; I could never own something of this magnitude.

…well, let's not say never.

A/N: I told you this would happen. I'd listen to "Take Me or Leave Me" several thousand times in a row, and BAM! Another fic would pop out of the cavernous monster that is my brain. This time, it's a Maureen drabble. Woot for complex characters.

I'm tired of this.

It's hard not to be. I've spent so long—feels like my whole life, really—in relationships of all sorts. Men, women, older, younger. People are people to me, and always have been. I get on well with them; I like to make them smile, laugh, feel.

I think that's why I liked Mark so much. Why I was able to confuse myself into thinking I really loved him. He was easy to amuse. He loved me so much that he could barely look my way without an adorable smile breaking over his face. His eyes would crinkle in the sweetest way. He was impossible to not care for.

Joanne was never like that. Sure, I could make her laugh, but she never swooned over my every move. She never fell at my feet when I walked past. She knew when—no, _how_—to say "no", and that made the greatest difference in the world when it came to the choice between her and Mark. Between future and past. Between lover and pet.

That's why I know I love her. Because, if I didn't, why would I give up on someone I knew, someone I trusted, someone who I knew without a singular doubt would do _anything _for my sake?

Mark would do anything for me. He wouldn't question a thing.

I hate that. He's got a mind of his own; why couldn't he use it? And, more importantly, why did I never ask him to?

I love Joanne because she's everything Mark is not. And she's everything that he is.

But mostly, everything that he's not.

For instance, Mark was never this paranoid.

She's terrified of losing me. I'm not sure she even sees that; she probably hides that under her thousands of thoughts. I swear, that woman thinks too fucking much. She's going to drive the both of us insane one of these days, and I get the feeling it'll be soon.

I can see her mind working whenever we're out together. Her eyes flit from me, to that guy down the street, to that girl stepping out her car, to that woman about to collide with my shoulder. She can't seem to stop herself. I know what she's thinking, too. It's perfectly clear, written all over her sweet face.

_Does she want _that _one?_

The thing of it is, sometimes I _do _want "that" one. Sometimes, I want more than one of them. So sue me, I'm human. I have eyes. If someone's attractive, I'm going to respond; that's just how I am. If it isn't human nature, it's at the very least Maureen nature, and I've never tried to tamper with that. I've never wanted to. If I change who I am, who will be left? A shadow. A shell. Bouncy hair and bouncy smiles, and nothing else.

She loves more of me than that. She has to.

Doesn't she?

I love more of _her _than just her big dark eyes and soft skin. I love more than her basics. She owes me the same.

We fought three days ago. It was nothing new: she was accusing me of flirting with the guy manning the cash register at the supermarket. True, I _had_ smiled at him, made light conversation, but what would she have me do? I'm stuck with that twenty-three-year-old acne case until he's fired and I really don't want to end up with crushed fruits and bread for all those months.

We made up the next morning. If there's one thing I pride myself on in this relationship, it's that I know how to keep it going. How to keep _her _going. I know all her weak points, and while it isn't as easy to exploit them with her as it once was with Mark…

It isn't that I _enjoy _manipulating the love of my life. It's just that I can't bear the thought of losing her. Surely she'd understand that, if she could just blink away the obsessive terror for thirty seconds. If she could just see things my way for once.

We've had good times. They come and go, yes, but there are actually quite a few of them stocked in my memory. Everyone seems to think we only have two modes, Joanne and me: fight or fuck. I can see it on their faces, when they watch us—Roger, Mark, even Collins. Only Mimi seems innocent to these rigid concepts of "one or the other". She's the only one.

Well…not the _only _one. Angel saw it too. But then, Angel saw everything. More, even, than my little witness buddy, Mark, with his thick glasses and his all-knowing camera. Angel didn't need technology or notebooks to record observations; she did it on instinct.

Like the time we all went on a picnic. It was freezing outside—there was still snow coating the grass—but Roger, of all people, had suggested a trip out to the nearest park. We'd all agreed, excited to see him want to leave the house.

The picnic itself never actually took place. What replaced the concept of a comfortable lunch was—what else?—a snowball fight.

Collins started it. He'd thrown a handful of snow down the back of Roger's neck and then just ran. Knowing he'd never get to the much-faster man, Roger instead chose to hoist Mimi into the air and twirled her around. Dizzy and laughing over her delighted shrieks, he'd stumbled them both into a deep snow bank.

Joanne and I stood, watching this. She was smiling, her hand entwined with mine. Her eyes were fixed on Mark, who was running for his life, Collins on his tail, and she looked content for the first time in weeks.

So, I leaned over and nudged my shoulder into hers. She glanced toward me and squeezed my hand. She was calm.

I didn't want her to be calm. I can't explain the exact reasoning behind this; I only know that everyone else was feeling wild, spastic, elated—and I wanted us to be on that wavelength.

I pulled my hand out of hers, relishing the brush of skin on skin, and watched her eyes come back to my face. Watched her eyebrow raise. Watched her lips twitch uncertainly as her mind churned: _What now?_

I pounced on her. Tackled her into the snow. Trapped her little body beneath my own and dug my hands into her sides. She bucked and squirmed and made the most amusing little squeaky noises as she tried to backward-crawl away.

Tickling Joanne was the most fun I'd had in a long time. Once she realized there was no way she was getting free of the situation unscathed, her tactics changed. She let herself laugh, the rare, crazy laugh that I'd always dreamed of pulling from her. Then, she threw her hands up, capturing my wrists, and using some previously-untapped reserve of strength to flip me onto my back.

Lying there, with ice melting against my puffy jacket and my girlfriend sitting on top of me, I resolved to thank Roger for his idea later, if only for the look in her eyes. I wished I was Mark for only that moment, just so I could videotape the triumphant smile on her lips and save it forever. I wanted to be inside Collins' head, if only to understand, in the way he could, exactly what the psychology behind her softening grip on my arms was.

Then she leaned down, and brushed her nose against mine. Pressed her lips against my cheek, against my forehead. Giggled in a way that I've only heard from her on that one occasion. And I stopped wanting to be anyone else.

I was Maureen. She was Joanne. That's all either of us needed.

When we untangled from each other and stood, brushing the snow from each other's backs, I looked over her shoulder and saw Angel, with Collins in her arms. Her head was thrown back; she was laughing that rich, pure Angel-laugh that we all knew so well. And then she was looking back at me, smiling sincerely, winking almost-roguishly.

She saw everything.

I miss that. I could use some reminders every once in awhile of why I work so hard to keep this going.

It's seven-thirty. I've ordered a pizza. She'll be home soon. If we were any other couple, this would be the perfect recipe for a comfortable evening, curled up on the couch in our pajamas, stealing pepperoni and kisses alternately.

With Joanne, I don't know how to be "any other couple". Thank God. I've never known what to do with convention.

Still, as I listen to each vicious tick of the clock over the stove, I can't help the apprehension in my gut. I'm tired of this, of fighting all the time. Of _expecting _fights. You shouldn't have to spend every moment with your lover worrying.

I need to find a way to make her loosen up. To make her trust me. Or else I'm not sure I'll be able to keep us going.

A person can only carry another so far.


End file.
